The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [147]
They thumbed through it, the three of them huddling over the paperwork, scouring it as if it contained the highly guarded secret formula for Coca-Cola.
“Same PO Box,” Bledsoe commented.
“And nothing on the application to indicate he’d ever been in the slammer,” Robby noted.
“You didn’t really expect him to be an honest citizen when filling out his job app, did you?” Vail asked. “Would you hire a rapist who’d done time?”
“So we’re left with interviewing the employees,” Robby said. He turned to the receptionist. “Can we talk with the personnel director?”
“You’re lookin’ at her.”
“You have any employees who’ve been with the company longer than fifteen years?”
She looked at the ceiling, searching the exposed pipes and ventilation ducts. “We got four. No, three. Then there’s the owner.”
“They in?” Bledsoe asked. “We’ll need to talk to each of them.”
“They’re in. I’ll call them.”
Vail held up a hand. “Hold it. We’ll take the owner first. Then we’ll talk with the three workers.”
AL MASSIE WAS A SQUAT MAN in his early fifties. His thick, short legs rubbed together when he walked, causing a side-to-side gait that resembled a waddle. He had a flat pencil stuck behind his right ear, and frazzled gray hair interspersed with saw dust. His left thumb was missing its last joint.
“I’m Paul Bledsoe, Fairfax County Homicide. These are my associates, Special Agent Karen Vail and Detective Robby Hernandez.” Pleasantries were exchanged. “We were wondering what you could tell us about Patrick Farwell. Worked here three years, nineteen—”
“I remember Patrick. Good worker, kept to himself. Didn’t know nothing about what he was doing, though. I had nothing to do with it. I told the police everything, which wasn’t much.”
“We’re not here about that case,” Vail said. “We were just hoping you could provide some background for us on Patrick. Anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
“Don’t remember much. That was a long time ago.”
“How about friends he had?” Vail continued. “Was he close with any of the workers?”
“From what I remember, Patrick was a loner. There was one guy he used to work with a lot, Jim Gaston. Did a lot of finish work with him. Jim’s still here. You talk to him yet?”
“No, we figured we’d start with you.”
“Jimbo’s your man. If Patrick said anything to anybody, it woulda been to Jimbo.” He looked at Bledsoe and Robby, then took a step backward. “I’m in the middle of a wall unit, and yes, I may own the place but I still keep my hands in the sawdust. Don’t like running the business, that was my father’s job before he passed on. Anything else you need me for?”
Bledsoe shook his head. “That’s good for now. If something comes up, we’ll find you. Thanks for your help.”
JAMES GASTON NEEDED A DENTIST. His left front tooth was missing, and his lower teeth were crooked and caked with plaque. He had a receding forehead and a strong chin, giving him almost a prehistoric appearance. He, too, had a flat pencil tucked behind his ear, and his apron was covered with paintbrush strokes of stain.
“I remember Patrick, sure,” he said in response to Bledsoe’s question. “Strange guy. Didn’t like to talk much unless he had some beer in him. He’d sneak some during lunch, then he’d open up. Talked about these women he’d had, but I didn’t pay him much mind. Thought he was blowing his own horn, you know? Then when he got arrested I started thinkin’ maybe he wasn’t shit-tin’ me.”
“He ever say anything about where he lived, places he liked to go or hang out?” Vail asked.
“He lived on an old family ranch or something like that. Lotta land. Hunted fox in the winter, fished in the